


the absence of death

by chatona



Series: soldier!gibbs and college boy!tony [1]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chatona/pseuds/chatona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The absence of death does not necessarily equal an abundance of life</p>
            </blockquote>





	the absence of death

**Author's Note:**

> soldier!gibbs and college boy!tony

Gibbs slams the glass down on the counter and grabs the next one, downing the content. The liquor burns all the way down his throat and it feels like he’s swallowing acid. He closes his eyes and wishes he were, imagines it eating away at his chest until there’s nothing left. There’s no one left to miss him.

The bar is almost empty, it’s still early in the evening. A couple of boys are shooting pool in a corner, bottles of beer cradled in their hands and they’re not that much younger than Gibbs, just a couple of years, but their smiles are wide and carefree and they throw their heads back when they laugh. Gibbs sees corpses in every shadow and everything smells of gunpowder and explosions and pain and death.

He swallows around another shot of tequila and ignores the looks the bartender throws him, wondering if people can read what he’s seen in the lines of his face, the set of his jaw and his shoulders and in his hair-cut.

Gibbs wants to scream at those boys in the corner, wants to shake them and make them open their eyes to the things he’s seen and felt and he wants to protect them and preserve that laughter all the same. He does neither, just closes his eyes and tightens his fingers around the shot glass, wanting it to shatter in his palm. It doesn’t and the sun is shining outside and it is warm.

The door opens with a jingle and the sound makes Gibbs tense up, hands reaching for weapons he doesn’t carry anymore, doesn’t carry right now. He turns, but it it’s just a group of college students, scantily clad girls hanging off the arms of tall and handsome boys with large grins and clear eyes.

Gibbs hands another twenty to the bartender and downs more shots, one after the other, one for each comrade who died in combat and one for each who was injured and by that time he’s starting to slump, his shoulders curling in and his posture loosening, his fingers twitching around the gun he left behind in his quarters.

The room is filling up now and Gibbs’ throat feels tighter, his mind providing exits and tactics to secure the area and rescue the civilians. He ignores the grind of bodies on the dance floor and flinches every time a stray arm comes near him, glares at his hands and wills his mind away from dead eyes and corpses and desert heat and war.

There’s a boy across the room who’s sitting still amidst the masses, who drinks with his friends and has giggling girls in his lap and whose eyes yet remain fixed on a point far away. Gibbs thinks the boy looks just like him and it’s like looking in a mirror, only not. There’s no military hair-cut and no military posture, only a boy sitting sprawled in his chair with eyes that remind Gibbs of shipping out and coming back a different man and of all the time in between, the time that changed him.

And once he’s looked, he can’t take his eyes off the boy anymore. Their gazes lock, for just a moment, and Gibbs freezes (don’t ask, don’t tell) and turns back to his liquor and watches from the corner of his vision as the boy grins brightly in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes and dislodges the girl from his lap and then the boy is next to him and empties one of his tequila shots. Gibbs growls and the boy’s grin turns smug and cheeky and his eyes remain the same, dead and desolate and Gibbs knows bravado when he sees it, has seen it too many times in everyone’s faces when they were all carrying weapons and sitting behind whatever cover they could find, with bullets spraying the soil around them.

“Let’s go,” he says and is surprised how gritty and rough his voice sounds. The boy bites down on his lower lip and licks over it, empties another one of Gibbs’ tequilas. Gibbs drinks the last one and the boy follows him out of the back door.

The mortar of the wall is hard and crude unter Gibbs’ fingers when he slams the boy against it and he buries his hands in the brown hair and smiles (bares his teeth) when brown eyes widen and spark. Gibbs can see his reflection in them.

“’m Tony,” the boy says, and Gibbs wonders if that’s his real name and if he makes a habit of letting men slam him into brick walls in alleys behind bars and then he stops thinking altogether because their lips mash together and it’s wet and hard and desperate and tastes like alcohol, but not like death and that’s all Gibbs needs.

The boy makes little noises at the back of his throat, like it hurts, but his hands are pulling on Gibbs’ clothes in a frantic search for skin and contact. Gibbs bunches up the boy’s shirt in his hands and nips on the boy’s chin and his jaw and his neck and the boy lets his head fall back against the wall and moans.

There’s a story in the boy’s eyes and in his gasps and whimpers, in the way his hands cling to Gibbs’ shoulders and yet never hold too tight, but Gibbs couldn’t care less, because biting down on the boy’s lips and bucking up against the his hip, the material of his pants dragging against the boy’s jeans creating friction, that keeps the images and thoughts at bay and there’s a different kind of coherency in this, a lack of thought that brings clarity. Gibbs knows how to do this the same way he knows how to act in combat, a knowledge that resides in his gut rather than his brain and so for once he can stop thinking.

The boy turns them around and sinks to his knees in the dirt of the back alley and pulls at Gibbs’ belt and at his trousers until they pool around his ankles and his dick springs up and then Gibbs can’t breathe anymore, because all he sees is the boy with his lips red and raw and spread wide around his cock. It’s heat and pressure and there’s a wet popping noise every time the boy pulls back, his nose flaring and his eyes feral and wild and both hands fanned over Gibbs’ hips to keep him still.

Gibbs’ legs tremble and the tension creeps up his spine and he drags his fingers over the boy’s cheeks (hollow from sucking him down) and to his neck, the fine hair tickling his finger tips and the boy’s pulse beating violently and furiously under the thin skin. Gibbs clings to that and presses his fingers against the skin there, his thumb brushing over the boy’s jawline. He’s leaving bruises and he could snap the boy’s neck like this, but instead he lets out the groans and growls lodged in his throat and there’s a bird singing somewhere and Gibbs is coming in hot spurts down the boy’s throat, white noise and a hoarse cry and his finger’s tightening on the boy’s neck.

He falls back against the wall and the boy doesn’t move, he’s still kneeling between Gibbs’ legs and his eyes aren’t empty anymore and Gibbs can see the boy’s hard cock outlining his trousers and he’s absentmindedly palming it, but his gaze never leaves Gibbs’ face.

“Come home with me,” the boy says and even his voice sounds bruised.

Gibbs pulls up his pants and the boy wipes a hand over his mouth and spits down come onto the ground and stands up. For the first time, Gibbs realises the boy is taller than him.

They walk in silence and stop at a shop where the boy buys a bottle of Jim Beam that they pass back and force between each other, their fingers brushing and the alcohol detaching them further from reality.

Gibbs wonders what his fellow Marines would say if they could see them now, marvels at how easily the boy disregarded his friends and company at the bar and remembers that half of his comrades died in another country where the sun burns hotter. “Jethro Gibbs,” he offers and there’s surprised in the boy’s eyes, but then he nods and almost smiles (the corners of his mouth lifting up in a movement that is more honest than all his grins at the bar). Gibbs watches the boy’s throat work as he swallows down more liquor before handing the bottle back to Gibbs.

At some point, the boy stops and unlocks a door and his cheeky grin is back when he invites Gibbs in and Gibbs slams the door closed behind him and the boy against the door and they’re kissing again, all tongue and teeth and frenzy.

“Bed,” the boy gasps and his eyes are dark and green and Gibbs’ dick twitches and just like that, they’re at it again. Gibbs doesn’t spare any thought to the details of the room and of the house and under attack, he wouldn’t know where to find cover or the exits and he doesn’t even care, because there’s too much alcohol in his veins and the boy is warm and close and _alive_ under his hands, moaning and pulling on his clothing. They leave a trail of shirts and pants and socks to the bed, clawing and licking and biting whatever parts of each other they can reach.

The boy stretches and Gibbs runs his hands over the lean torso and the slim hips and rubs his thumb over the boy’s balls. The boy tosses lube and a condom at Gibbs and spreads his legs and the look from the alley is back in his eyes, wild and needy, and Gibbs thinks he should take his time with this and do it right, but the boy bucks his hips up and Gibbs’ fingers sink right in and he stops thinking again to rip more of those moans from the boy’s throat. When he pushes inside, it’s tight and hot and Gibbs’ mind goes blissfully blank and so he buries himself deeper in the boy and thrusts into him again and again until all he knows is this; the moans and gasps that fill the air and the slide of skin against skin, his balls slapping against the boy’s ass with each thrust.

The boy is thrashing under him, his legs drawn to his chest and his hands holding on to the sheets like they’re a lifeline. Gibbs feels his throat and his balls tighten at the sounds the boy makes and he brings one hand between them and drags it over the length of the boy’s erection, up and down again and the boy closes his eyes and bites down on his lip and comes, his back arching up and his ass clenching around Gibbs. Nothing matters but this and Gibbs is soaring high, feeling powerful and insignificant and wide open and then he collapses on the boy and has to close his eyes against the vulnerability he sees and tries to catch his breath instead.

They lie like that for countless minutes, reality distorted around them and sweat and come drying between their bodies and finally, Gibbs finds the energy to pull out and roll off the boy and dispose of the condom (they can clean up when they can breathe again) and when he turns back to the boy, his limbs feel loose and relaxed and sprawled and he’s calm.

The boy’s watching him and Gibbs pulls the sheets over them both and draws the boy against his body. “Tony,” he says, rolling the name over his tongue, trying and testing it out. With a sigh, the boy lets go of the last tension and falls bonelessly against Gibbs, his head resting on Gibbs’ shoulder and his legs tangling with Gibbs’.

“There’s still alcohol left,” he mutters and Gibbs nods, his nose in the boy’s hair and his fingers finding the boy’s pulse point again where he can feel the boy’s heart pump blood through his body, strong and continually.

“I know,” he answers. The boy smiles against his shoulder.


End file.
